


right now, you're mine

by psikeval



Series: words, hands, hearts [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 03:00:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4084078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psikeval/pseuds/psikeval
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Darling, that collar isn’t likely to vanish the more you pull at it.”</p><p>[A bit of stolen time at the Winter Palace]</p>
            </blockquote>





	right now, you're mine

\--

 

“Darling, that collar isn’t likely to vanish the more you pull at it.”

Cassandra stops in the act like a guilty child, reminded of when her uncle used to scold her for always fidgeting in her best dresses. She’s never been at home at this kind of event. Of course Vivienne, gliding through the vestibule in her tailored gown, makes it all look so effortless.

“I’d settle for it loosening,” she answers shortly. All this subterfuge and posturing has put her in a foul temper.

Still, she glances away, grimacing at her own bad manners, and attempts to take a calming breath. Vivienne doesn’t deserve to be made a target simply because she’s learned to play this wretched Orlesian game.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Cassandra tries, and hopes it does not sound like an accusation.

She’s granted only a glossy, perfect smile, the graceful tilt of Viviene’s neck. “Why wouldn’t I?”

"Ah." The deflection shouldn’t be frustrating, should be no more than she expected. But apparently Cassandra has become too used to the woman she’s traveled with — Vivienne of the Hinterlands dryly telling scandalous tales of nobility that made even Sera laugh, Vivienne of the Storm Coast granting an exhausted smile over their weak and smoking campfire. The distance between them now feels doubly artificial, and to be cut off from the honesty Cassandra has been granted before is… dissatisfying.

Vivienne’s perfume, the one that doubles as a poison, is really quite pleasant.

“Those boots are lovely on you,” she says now, gazing down at Cassandra’s legs.

She’s wrong. The boots are _terrible_ , unfit for any sort of work, the leather tight all the way to her thighs and stiff with shine, inflexible. If Cassandra went to crouch behind her shield, she might only make it halfway—to say nothing of moving her arms in this ridiculous costume.

“I disagree,” she mutters mutinously. “ _You_ are not forced to wear these… garments.”

“Can you really picture me in red, darling?”

Cassandra shrugs stiffly, only a little because of her clothes. It might look nice, she thinks; vibrant, like Vivienne’s smile. But it’s clearly not the fashion, from what she’s seen here, so perhaps it’s wrong to wish it on Vivienne. This Game has its own sort of armor, as Leliana is so fond of saying, even if Cassandra can’t begin to understand it.

Despite all of Josephine’s talk of presenting a united front in Orlais, the Inquisitor did not order the court’s First Enchanter—who, after all, made her name by refusing to ally herself with any sort of faction—to appear in uniform.

Tonight, Vivienne looks much as she always does, but grander, more black and dark grey in her gown for the occasion. Even Cassandra can realize it’s a skilled tailor indeed who can turn a mage’s robes, typically made to look soft and harmless, into something like this. Everyone in the palace wants to be seen speaking to Madame de Fer, but all of them do so with deference.

“Do you like it?” asks Vivienne, amused, and it occurs to Cassandra that she’s been staring.

“Of course,” she blurts out, lifts a hand to her hair before recalling the stern things Josephine said about that. “I apologize.”

“Please don’t. If I can’t manage to command a bit of attention, I suppose I really am getting old.”

“You?!” Cassandra can feel a blush rising in her cheeks, but she cannot possibly let this pass. For Vivienne, of all people, to think--

“You’re sweet, my dear,” Vivienne says warmly, her hand laid warm and gentle on Cassandra’s arm. “But one’s time passes quickly in the Game, unless you’re very careful.”

“But you are. Aren’t you?”

Vivienne’s fingers are so very close to the skin without her armor, tracing down the muscles from shoulder to elbow. “A discussion for another time, perhaps.”

“Of course.”

“Would you care to dance?”

“Here?”

“I was thinking of the ballroom, darling,” she says dryly, half-smiling, “but yes.”

“Is that… proper?”

Vivienne tilts her head as if considering it, and her smile only grows. “First Enchanter and the Right Hand of the Divine? I think it will do nicely.”

"That loud little man won't announce us again, will he?"

"You should be quite safe for the time being."

They are indeed able to enter the ballroom without any great fuss, though Cassandra has not missed being so very _watched_ in public. The Inquisition has given her a quieter life, one far less subject to scrutiny. Many days, the demons seem a small price to pay.

“Will you lead?” she asks Vivienne when they've reached the floor.

“No, dear, it ought to be you,” she murmurs, shifting their hands to match. “They’ll only permit me so much, in my current position, and I’ve traded in boldness enough for one night.”

“Is it never tiring?” A half-familiar tune begins, and Cassandra falls into the rhythm of the dance with ease, much to her own relief.

“Exhaustion is rather secondary, when one knows what must be done, is it not?”

“Yes, I believe I understand.”

“I thought you might. You’re really quite extraordinary.”

“Oh.” Cassandra cannot help the flush creeping up her neck—cannot, just then, look Vivienne in the eye.

Too late, she realizes that she’s begun to lead them in the Nevarran variant of this particular dance, the movements sharper and a triple-step added on every twelve-count, but Vivienne follows flawlessly, unhesitating.

“Homesick?” she asks in a soft undertone, without a hint of recrimination.

“Not at all. I— I simply wasn’t thinking. I apologize.”

“No, please. Unlike certain upstarts adding useless flourishes to hide their lack of taste—” the words are pitched oddly to the side, and a small cluster of nobles laugh behind their masks. “You’ve simply honored your own traditions, and drawn the eyes of the court without theatrics.”

“That wasn’t my intention.”

“I know.” There’s something rueful in Vivienne’s smile. “It seems you hardly ever need to try.”

Cassandra snorts. “You should have seen me getting into these boots.”

“Oh?”

 _Damnation._  “I—I didn’t mean—” She lets her eyes fall shut for a moment, concentrates on the steps she learned by heart as a girl. “Ugh. I cannot believe I let you talk me into this.”

“Ah, yes.” Her hand shifts on Cassandra’s waist, fingers curling enough to make the rake of Vivienne’s nails felt clearly through the fabric, a slow back and forth that steals the breath from Cassandra's lungs without warning. “I pressured you terribly, darling.”

They take their last turn with the rest of the dancers, slowing to a halt as the music fades. Vivienne holds the pose perfectly, her touch so perfunctory now it can hardly be noticed at all — and only then does it occur to Cassandra to marvel at her control, how her perfect command of the space between them is revealed as clearly in distance as in what indulgence she allows.

It makes Cassandra wonder what more she might be permitted, in time.

 

\--


End file.
